


Ouch Oof My Lungs

by payyourfreakingtaxes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bahorel (mentioned) - Freeform, Chronic Illness, Collapsed lung, Grantaire (mentioned) - Freeform, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Marfan Syndrome, but not so great at repressing his lung collapsing, but then having them, corona doesn't exist in this fic k, in which courf is a pro at repressing his feelings, not having important conversations, oh christ i have to come up with tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/payyourfreakingtaxes/pseuds/payyourfreakingtaxes
Summary: In which your author procrastinates one work by writing another.Basically Courf has Marfan Syndrome and has decided to cope with it by Not. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Relationships: I guess u could ship any of them really
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Ouch Oof My Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Miss Rona keeps us all cooped up, so have this to pass the time, and perhaps leave kudos or a comment if you feel so inclined? 
> 
> Also they're in America because of one single line in this.

Really, Courfeyrac had thought (well, more like hoped) that his death would be a touch more exciting.

He was being dramatic. He wasn’t going to die. 

Probably. 

It had all started simply enough. Perhaps unpleasant, but easy enough to ignore. A stabbing chest pain isn’t necessarily something to be ignored, but ignore it he had. Then the pain started spreading, which was irregular. Still, pain happened. Probably nothing to worry about. He’d simply winced and tried to focus on the meeting, brushing off Combeferre’s concerned glance with a shake of his head. He stretched his arms above his head, trying to adjust whatever was bothering him.

Then came the coughing, which is where he really should have been concerned. At the time, though, he didn’t even connect the two. The coughing was simply another nuisance, another thing pulling his attention from Enjolras’ presentation. He had tried not to be disruptive, but his cough grew steadily more persistent. Enjolras had stopped speaking and looked over. 

“Courfeyrac, you okay?” 

Courfeyrac had meant to ease his friends’ concerns with a joke, or at least a flippant comment. He had also meant to get up to get a drink, hoping to clear his throat. But the words didn’t come, and suddenly he was on the floor, and his head hurt, and he couldn’t breathe. 

The room was a blur of motion and sound as his friends reacted. There were hands on his back. Someone was speaking to him. He didn’t know who. It didn’t really matter. He couldn’t reply. He heard someone else calling for an ambulance. He couldn’t afford an ambulance. Maybe that didn’t matter either. 

After that, things came in flashes. 

Someone carrying him from the cafe (Bahorel, probably; though Grantaire was stronger than he looked). 

He was lying down, but he was moving (the ambulance, probably) and a voice told him he was going to be okay as he gasped. He doubted it. 

Then pain, somewhere along the side of his ribcage. He made a sound. A voice somewhere above him said, “Sorry about that.” 

_ You should be, _ he thought. 

When he next came back to himself, the pain had largely gone, and he could breathe again. He was relieved for all of three seconds before he spotted Enjolras. And Combeferre. Both looked exhausted. Combeferre was slumped over in a chair, holding his head in hands, and Enjolras was pacing the length of the room. Courfeyrac considered closing his eyes again and falling back asleep, if only to avoid the unpleasant conversation that was coming. Too late. Enjolras had seen him awake.

“You’re up!”

Courfeyrac tried to smile. “I’m up.” 

Combeferre, who had startled up at Enjolras’ exclamation, came over to stand at Courfeyrac’s bedside. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’ve been better,” Courfeyrac replied. Understatement. “You guys look like shit.”

“The same could be said of you,” ‘Ferre said, not missing a beat.

“What happened?”

“Tension pneumothorax. Your lung collapsed. In a bad way.”

“Is there a good way for a lung to collapse?” Courfeyrac asked.

Combeferre pushed his glasses up, unamused. “There are less life-threatening ways.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“You turned blue, Courfeyrac!” Enjolras interjected. 

“It happens.”

“It doesn’t, actually,” Combeferre said. “What happened? You seemed fine before.”

Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably. As predicted, they had reached the exact conversation he wanted to avoid. However, he couldn’t see his way past it, nor could he deny, looking at their worried faces, that they deserved an explanation. Still, he was allowed to be unhappy about it. He took a breath to steady himself. 

“I have Marfan Syndrome.”

And there it was. The exact reaction he had been hoping to avoid. The heavy silence currently hanging over the room. He searched their faces. There was some recognition in Combeferre’s eyes; he might have heard of it before. Enjolras looked confused, not that it lessened his worry. Nothing ending in “syndrome” was ever good news. Sure enough, he was the first to break the silence.

“What does that mean?” 

“It’s a connective tissue disorder. My joints are bendy. My organs are bendy. Everything's bendy." He thought for a second. "Well, not my bones, I think."

Combeferre shook his head. "How long have you known?" 

Courfeyrac at least had the decency to look apologetic. "Two years? Give or take."

Nobody spoke for several, wildly uncomfortable seconds. Courfeyrac was tempted to try and pass the whole thing off as a joke in extremely poor taste when Combeferre opened his mouth.

“Two years?”

Courfeyrac hesitated, but nodded.

“You’ve kept this from us for two years?”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve kept it from you. I would have told you if you had asked.”

Enjolras looked like he was about to cry. Courfeyrac sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept this from you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Combeferre frowned. “It’s not a matter of what we ‘want’ to hear from you. It’s a matter of why you felt like this wasn’t something you could share with us. I was under the impression that we didn’t keep secrets from one another, and I want to know what we did that changed your mind on that policy.”

“It’s not about something you did.” Courfeyrac dragged his hands down his face as he fumbled for the right words. “I just-- Enjolras looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown, and you’re giving me that look--”

“What look?”

“ _ That  _ look,” Courfeyrac said, waving his hand absently towards Combeferre’s face, “and I didn’t want any of us to have to go through this. Least of all me. I’ve suffered enough.” He forced a chuckle, as if this would relieve the tension. The silence remained stubbornly uncomfortable. He sighed yet again, noticing the rasp in his throat as he did so. He found a cup of water on his bedside table and sipped pensively, taking the opportunity to gather his thoughts. 

“Look, this isn’t, like, a cancer diagnosis or something. There’s not going to be any beating it, or going into remission, or whatever the fuck. I’ve had it since the day I was born, and I’ll have until I die.” He noticed them both flinch at that. “Poor choice of words. I mean, it’s not terminal, either. As long as I’m careful, I’m gonna live just as long as I would if I didn’t have it. This doesn’t change anything.” 

Enjolras smiled, which Courfeyrac considered a victory. “Is there anything you might need adjusted that would make meetings easier for you?”

Courfeyrac resisted the urge to refuse the assistance. He reminded himself that these were his friends, and that asking for help wasn’t the same as showing weakness. “Maybe just making sure we meet in places without too many stairs? And that have places to sit? I, personally, don’t mind sitting on the floor, but my joints aren’t the biggest fans.” 

Enjolras nodded, and Courfeyrac could see the list forming in his head. “We should also talk to the school board. Campus accessibility is severely lacking, and it’s putting disabled students at an extreme disadvantage, especially in classes with strict attendance policies. I think that if we got a petition together, and maybe gathered stories from other disabled students, we could build a movement out of this.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “That sounds great, but maybe we can hold off on that until I can get checked out of here?”

Enjolras looked sheepish. “Right. Sorry.”

Combeferre rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry that you felt the need to keep this from us, and that our initial reactions focused more on our personal emotions than on yours. But you really don’t have to do this by yourself. We’re a team, and we’re here for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Courfeyrac said softly.

And he did know. He knew that there would be more hospital rooms and more close calls, and he knew that this wouldn’t be their last difficult conversation. But more than that, he knew that he had his support system, and they could handle whatever life threw at them. And maybe that could be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't know how to write an ending and I refuse to learn.


End file.
